


A Game of Words

by candyeater_03



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Clemensia Dovecote-centric, Existential Crisis, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Intrusive Thoughts, Masturbation, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyeater_03/pseuds/candyeater_03
Summary: No mom, no dad,she would’ve wanted to say,why should I be happy for someone else if I’m the one losing?But instead she nodded,alright,she said,I’m sorry. Little by little she learnt to separate her thoughts from her words, to reflect on something and say something else, without effort. And as, in the years, the voice inside her became more and more nasty, poisonous, intolerable, she kept on looking for words that were more and more sweet, kind, that could compensate. At times it was almost like a mathematical calculation, a curious, determinate discovery of her balance. Almost like a game.Sometimes this thought still torments her, it wakes her up in the middle of the night and it pierces her stomach. She knows, deep down, to loathe what she would’ve become on her own. She knows to have been saved by her upbringing, and it’s a certainty that relieves her, but terrifies her as well.She is fake, she’s a fake person.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	A Game of Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! First of all, if you understand Italian let me redirect you to the better, original version of this fanfiction: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3918405&i=1. This one is indeed a translation I made of a oneshot of my own, because I wanted to challenge myself! Keep in mind that English is not my first language, so there might be some weird stuff or mistakes here and there. If you spot any of these, I would be glad to receive some feedback or correction!  
> This is a piece was very important and therapeutic for me to write, and I poured a lot of heart into it. Hope you like it! :3

Clemensia knows that she should be thinking about something else, right now.

She should be thinking about the majestic beauty of Heavensbee Hall, about the black banners, about the bright candelabra, she should be focusing on the sharp rhythm of her heels making their way to the podium.

She should be thinking about her diploma, about her good grades, about the future, she should be imagining what university is like. And she should be thinking about the group picture, straightening her skirt, making sure her hairstyle is perfect.

She should be thinking about the classmates sitting next to her, with whom she learnt to write and played hide-and-seek, with whom she laughed at the school dances, with whom she studied in tears in the middle of the night.

She should be thinking about the now over years of school, remembering how tedious, how endless they used to seem. Her heart should be feeling huge, swollen with that vibrant nostalgia that she now should be perceiving.

She knows that she should be thinking about something else, right now. But now she can’t, she really can’t.

As she walks along the auditorium aisle, it’s as if she weren’t even feeling there. She feels her head light, far from reality, entangled in a nauseating thought chain that for some reason she _has to_ bring to an end, but that is out of her control.

It’s not the first time it happens to her. It actually occurs often enough.

But why today? She’s been dreaming this ceremony all her life!

_That shirt is really hideous,_ she thinks, almost by chance, as she shakes hands with Mr. Plinth.

For some reason, that meaningless consideration is the only more or less coherent thought that her brain can now digest. It sticks to her, fills her head, floats all around her consciousness. She now can’t think about anything else.

While the man is handing her the prize, she makes a big smile.

 _No_ , she thinks, _the problem isn’t actually the shirt itself_.

 _The shirt is fine_.

 _Perhaps it doesn’t suit him_.

_Of course it doesn’t suit him_ , she thinks.

_He’s not one of us, after all. He really should stop pretending._

_Someone send him back to District 2, before his motherfucking son decides to get rid of us all._

The girl swallows. She can’t believe that she really thought that.

It’s not rare for her to lose control over her stream of consciousness. Her mind tends to wander on its own, further and further, until it reveals what she really thinks. Or what she fears to really think. She’s never understood which of the two it is, but she always ends up feeling like a horrible person anyways.

As if she wanted to make amends for her thoughts Clemensia bows her head with gratitude, making her smile even bigger.

Because she’s such a _polite_ person, isn’t she?

 _No_ , she thinks, as she walks towards the professors’ table. Her parents are polite people.

She’s just always listened to them.

“You forgot to say ‘thank you’.”

“What you said wasn’t very kind.”

“You should be happy for your friend.”

_No mom, no dad_ , she would’ve wanted to say, _why should I be happy for someone else if I’m the one losing?_

But instead she nodded, _alright_ , she said, _I’m sorry_. Little by little she learnt to separate her thoughts from her words, to reflect on something and say something else, without effort. And as, in the years, the voice inside her became more and more nasty, poisonous, intolerable, she kept on looking for words that were more and more sweet, kind, that could compensate. At times it was almost like a mathematical calculation, a curious, determinate discovery of her balance. Almost like a game.

Sometimes this thought still torments her, it wakes her up in the middle of the night and it pierces her stomach. She knows, deep down, to loathe what she would’ve become on her own. She knows to have been saved by her upbringing, and it’s a certainty that relieves her, but terrifies her as well.

She is fake, she’s a fake person.

Valeria Dover, her ditzy philosophy professor, is sitting at the first corner of the desk.

The girl shakes her hand too, keeping her bright smile on. She’s always hated philosophy. Too much subconscious, too much state of nature. It makes her sick.

And still she got a nine in her report card. Is it because she’s always pretended to like it?

It makes her sick too.

After greeting all the teachers seated along the table, those who’ve been following the now seniors since freshman year, she is given her diploma by dean Highbottom himself. She thanks him with a little curtsy, as a circumstantial applause arises in the hall.

Clemensia throws a glance at the first rows. They’re occupied by the students she knows best, those from the honors classes, those from the Games, those who perhaps are her friends more than anyone else.

Would they still be clapping, if they could read inside of her? It’s for her manners that they admire her: there’s nothing else to her. They see her radiant on stage, sweet, perfect as always, while the only thing she’s thinking about is how horrible Mr. Plinth’s shirt is. And that she doesn’t actually deserve that prize.

_Poor Coryo,_ she thinks, as she walks back to her seat. He is the one who should’ve won.

A shiver of regret runs along her spine. She had gotten so furious at him for not visiting her at the hospital, and yet, ever since he’s left, she’s never looked for him in any way.

She had thought to join, when some classmates had decided to go and speak to his family, but in the end she hadn’t done it. _They already planned it for themselves,_ she had thought, _I wouldn’t want to bother them_. _And maybe he doesn’t want to see me either, after all I’ve done to him_. She had simply asked Lysistrata, from whom she had known that Coryo had left for District 12, and that he would become a Peacekeeper.

She knows that she should write him a letter now, and she’s even tried a couple times. _But maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me, maybe I’m doing him a favor not showing up_. _I wouldn’t want to bother him,_ she always ends up thinking.

The screen on the back of the stage is displaying a presentation of photos, as a background for the ceremony. They’re mostly frames from the tenth Hunger Games, interviews and preparations included. Now that she’s back sitting in the stalls, the girl can’t avoid looking at it. _Splendid_.

For a second a picture of Reaper appears on the back wall, as if he was still live, alive for real. He stands next to his little graveyard, holding a corner of the flag in his hands.

Clemensia’s heart skips a beat. He looks so small, seen up close. He doesn’t look at all like the boy he was right after the Reaping. She could count his ribs now.

In an instant, the girl feels her face vehemently heat up. The burden of the stares she perceives on herself is enough to wet her eyelids, even if nobody is actually looking. The big screen is now displaying a close-up of Lucy Gray, but the picture from before got somewhat stuck in her eyes.

 _Look at what happened to him! He died because of me_. _I was the one who murdered him._

She doesn’t remember why she had thought that not sending him anything would be a good idea. She doesn’t remember what she was thinking at all. Was she thinking it was farsighted? That is was clever?

She doesn’t remember, no matter how hard she tries. No matter how much she would want to know. She’d like to be sure not to have thought it for real, to have had a good reason, she’d like to be able to say that it had really been the poison’s fault, and not hers. It was what everyone else had assumed, wasn’t it? They had hated her, and then they had forgiven her. Because it was the _flu_ ’s fault.

The truth is that they’re probably nothing more than excuses. Deep down, she knows it.

For how much the incident had disfigured her body, when she had first woken up in the hospital she hadn’t really felt that different. Maybe a little confused, a little messy. That she was. But, at the end of the day, it was still her. She knew she was. What if the illness had only managed to show the unpleasant being that she really was, beyond any veil of courtesy? She had behaved like a child. A stupid, stubborn child.

Clemensia used to ignore death before, but now she always thinks about it. About him.

Who knows what happened to him. Who knows where he is now. Just thinking about it she gets dizzy, her hands start trembling.

The girl remembers the tears of selfish terror that had kept her awake until dawn, in the hours after Arachne’s death. And even more she remembers the darkness, the silence, the pungent smell of her hospital days, when she was sure that they wanted to kill her. She had cried, cried and cried, for days and nights, she had shivered crouching under the paper sheets. Her mind wandered in circles. What did it even mean, to die? An afterlife? A Paradise? What if God didn’t exist? What if there was really nothing?

Nothing. _Nothing!_ How could she imagine the nothing, how could she imagine not to exist? And how could she imagine, instead, to live forever? She couldn’t. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She just wanted to stay there, she just wanted to get the chance to live again, she just wanted to go back home. And for days and nights she cried, she shivered crouching under the paper sheets. She gripped the stiff mattress tight, until her knuckles were white. _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to go!_

Was it too much to ask?

In those days of illness, while paranoia devoured her and the signs of the poison stretched out on her skin, knowing that Coryo was there was the only thing that could comfort her. When she’d feel hopeless, and out of breath from fear, it was a nice thought to have a friend in the other room. She’d imagine the colors of his walls, how he lied in his bed, what he dreamt when he was sleeping. And for a while she’d distract herself from all the rest.

But then it had stopped being enough, imagining him somewhere else. How amazing it would have been if he’d come to her, despite every rule and every obstacle! If he’d come and save her, like a prince from a fairytale. Every hour she imagined that door of hers open up, but then it never did. If not to let some nurses in.

Would it have been so wrong, so absurd to hope that he _wanted_ to see her? That he desired her? It was his name that she whispered, when she touched herself in the night. She imagined his fingers caressing her face, and her neck, and her shoulders, and again lingering on her breasts, her hips. She imagined his soft lips dancing together with hers, kissing her skin, tracing one by one all the curves of her body. Why was it this weird? This inconceivable? Clemensia well knew that she was pretty. Maybe even prettier than Persephone, and everyone liked Persephone. So why did nobody look at her? Why did _he_ not look at her?

As Lysistrata’s name is called from the microphone, Lucy Gray’s figure takes over the screen once again. This time the picture, from the night of the interviews, portrays her in the act of playing a guitar. With her expressive face she somehow manages to irradiate a disarming charm even here, motionless, almost out of focus. _Right in the spotlight, as always._

Clemensia immediately recognizes the context of the picture. She saw it on TV.

How to forget that splendid interpretation, that perfect technique, that unique voice! And again that heart-wrenching melody, such intimate, such evocative lyrics! More than anything the girl remembers how pale Coryo had become, listening to the song.

She had then reminded herself that it would’ve been inappropriate to feel jealousy, especially towards a girl who was about to die. But her mind didn’t care. Her heart didn’t care. She was just jealous.

 _Serves you right asshole_ , she had thought. _Hear what she says, did you hear? You fell for a whore, with all the choices you had. You left me behind for a whore. Fuck you, Coryo._

And then she had felt like crying, she had started sighing uncontrollably. Those were thoughts that hurt her.

Loneliness was poisoning her, more than poison itself. Because she had nothing to say to compensate.

When she was discharged from the hospital, not many hours later, the doctor had asked her not to mention the incident with anyone. There was no need to bother anyone, after all. Everyone had been told that she’d had a strong flu, and that was the reason nobody had never visited. But now it was over. Now she was alright.

Yes, she was alright. Not counting the scales on her collarbone, not counting her dry skin, not counting her yellowish eyes. Not counting the strong emotions, not counting the sudden mood swings. She was alright. Not even her parents suspected anything. Nobody had said anything.

Clemensia was livid. Why hadn’t Coryo told them? Why had he never visited?

She had even come looking for him! She had come pleading with tears in her eyes, her voice cracking from fear, and he hadn’t listened. Why hadn’t he done anything? Why had he forgotten about her, right when she had begged him not to?

On Monday she had looked for him to speak in person, right before the Games’ broadcast.

She was done with that farce of hers, with all those lies. What was the point of being polite? She had nothing but anger within herself. And she’d gone to him to spit it in his face, to make him understand it, to tell him everything, to tell him truly. Maybe the poison had lowered her defense, her inhibitions, but she was confident. It was all real.

Why then was she feeling the voice inside of her getting quieter and quieter every step she took?

“Thanks for visiting, Coryo” she had said.

But she wasn’t really meaning it. She had realized it the moment she’d started speaking. She was still perceiving that detachment, the same discord as always. What had happened?

She couldn’t run from that farce of hers, from all those lies. She was thinking something else, even then. Another truth. _I missed you Coryo_ , she had thought, _why didn’t you come? I know that I’m bothering you, that I don’t deserve it, that you had no reason to come, that you shouldn’t be worrying about me. I’m an asshole and a liar. But that would’ve made me happy. Less frightened. I would’ve really wanted you to be there, Coryo._

“Thanks for contacting my parents. Thanks for letting them know where I was” she had continued.

In her delusions Clemensia had remembered those matryoshka dolls that her grandma used to keep at home, when she was still a child. The ones that kept on opening themselves, revealing smaller and smaller copies. More and more intimate truths. What if she never got to the end? If she was nothing but endless layers of false truths?

 _My parents are good people_ , she had thought _, really. They would’ve done anything to defend me, if they had known. I know I don’t deserve it. Maybe you were right not to tell them, Coryo._

He had tried to justify himself. He was still recovering from the explosion, after all.

She hadn’t felt anger, hearing him grabbing at straws. Only regretful shame, for some reason.

“Really?” she had said “You looked top-notch at the interview. You and your tribute”.

 _I know she’s better than me_ , she had thought. _I can’t expect anything. I’d like to be her, Coryo. I’d like you to even once look at me as you look at her everyday. I know it’s stupid, I know I don’t deserve it. But I’d like you to look at me like that, even once. As if I were the only one in the world._

In the end Festus had intervened to call her out, and she had fled towards the front row.

Despite the clear disdain on her face, Clemensia remembers that she would’ve wanted to burst in tears.

An extended applause, that accompanies dean Highbottom’s walk towards the microphone, suggests that the ceremony is nearly over. The girl sees the screen on the back wall turn itself off, to then be brightened up moments later by Panem’s radiant crest.

Everyone is asked to stand up: it’s time to sing the anthem. The students immediately oblige, exchanging however some worried looks. This custom is fairly new, at the Academy. It’s the first time the anthem is being sung at graduation too. Nobody knows the lyrics, not all of it.

_Coryo knows it though. He was always asked to sing it._

As the backing track resonates within the auditorium, accompanied by messy mumbles and unpleasant notes, Clemensia can almost hear his voice. It’s not pretty, it’s not perfect, but it knows the anthem. It feels the anthem.

The reminiscence puts a small smile on the girl’s face. In the end they made up, anyways.

He himself had come to her, on a morning in which they both couldn’t sleep. He had apologized, as expected, and as expected she had forgiven him. She wasn’t angry for real, after all. It was just one of her many masks.

She had told him that she could understand, that she actually had to apologize as well. She had asked him if he considered her a terrible person.

“No” he had said “the only thing you are is brave”.

Clemensia had wondered wether he was really meaning it, or he too was just repeating what he knew he had to say. Maybe, she’d thought, the two of them were actually similar, even like that. Maybe she was mistaken, trying to hide from him all along. Such irony!

They had shared the last cheese tart and kept on talking, for a while at least. When they had finished the others were still asleep, but the birds had already started humming feeble chants in the night.

In that intimate, perfect silence, they had observed the darkness slide away from each other’s tired faces, until it had completely vanished. They had watched the first rays of dawn brighten up Heavensbee Hall’s glass walls, refracted and amplified in a curious myriad of colors. For once she was feeling there, there for real, she was feeling like a normal person. Even if she was just watching.

Clemensia remembers what she would have wanted to tell him, and maybe it’s also what she would want to tell him now.

She had thought of telling him about herself, about her true self, she had thought of leading him down, down along those thought chains of hers, that for some reason she _had to_ bring to an end, but that were out of her control. She had thought of showing him her stream of consciousness the way it was, unfiltered, of unveiling one by one all of her endless layers of thoughts. Like a matryoshka doll.

She had thought of asking if it was the same for him, if he could comprehend her. She would’ve asked how it was to live within his mind, within himself, she would’ve asked him what obsessions kept him busy, and what ideas he had to conceal. And she would’ve let him speak, speak of memories, and of emotions, and of thoughts, because she loved thinking about herself, but even more she loved him. _I love you Coryo_ , she wanted to tell him, and for once she wouldn’t have thought anything else. She wanted to tell him that she could have stayed there forever.

_But maybe he doesn’t care about this_ , she had thought.

 _Maybe he doesn’t care about me_ , she had thought.

 _Maybe I would just bother him_ , she had thought.

_I would never want to disturb him. Why should I?_

And she had stayed silent.


End file.
